


Inevitable

by rosweldrmr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosweldrmr/pseuds/rosweldrmr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, for all their anger, for all Derek and Jackson’s rage, their violence, their seething resentment, their combined tempers, when it finally does happen, when they finally tip past that line of intimidation and cross into that nebulous, murky realm of intimacy they find that they are oddly compatible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

The first time Derek fucks Jackson, it isn’t some kind of powerplay. It isn’t desperate or frenzied. It isn’t even particularly loud. In fact, it’s slow and soft. Gentle is the word that best describes it. The way Derek holds Jackson’s face in his hands and they look deeply into each other’s eyes as if words are too much, or maybe not enough. The way Derek is slow and mindful of his speed and thrusts. The way Jackson lifts his chin and holds his breath rather than crying out. The way Jackson lets one perfect tear fall in the wake of full penetration, and Derek is in no rush so he kisses the tear away. It’s all very Victorian-esque in its intensity and vulnerability.

But it shouldn’t be a surprise, not really, that they are so gentle; that what they are doing can only be described as ‘making love’. Because Derek Hale has only ever known how to be gentle, with what he is, with the tragic history of who he’s loved, and how they manipulated him. It wasn’t with dominance or strength that he was so thoroughly deceived. Love had always been his downfall, because in so many ways Derek is still fifteen and falling in love for the first time. He is fifteen and wants to be with Paige forever, fifteen and still mourning the loss of his mother, fifteen and still broken in ways that only love could ever hope to mend.

That’s how Kate used him. it was never about the sex, not back then. It was always the promise of a connection, a lifeline to another real person who knew him, who accepted him, who loved him that was his downfall. It was different then, she was so different then, from the monster she was when she came back to Beacon Hills. She was a disgrace, a mockery of the girl he fell in love with. The one who taught him to be gentle, who showed him how to make love. She taught him how to be attentive, and delicate, how to be still and quiet and listen to her breathing. She taught him to be fair and generous in bed, how to be thankful, how to be the kind of man he always imagined his father was, the kind that would have made his mother proud.

It was that man that Jennifer Blake had fallen in love with, the version of himself he was in bed. The version that had shown her compassion, and genuine adoration for the first time in _years_. Because that’s who Derek is, that’s who he’s only ever known how to be when he’s like this. When he sheds his claws and angry eyes, when he lays bare his soul and is truly intimate. Sex without love is an impossibility for someone like Derek, who doesn’t know any other way.

And, well, Jackson? That should be even less than a surprise. After all, his only sexual experiences have been with a girl who’s seen ‘The Notebook’ 800 times. Is it any wonder, then, that he only knows how to be gentle? Lydia had always been so quiet in bed, sneaking around their houses, late Friday nights after his parents had gone to bed. He would kiss her breathless and whisper he loved her. It was the only way he ever managed to say it, when the whole world narrowed to just the space between their bodies and she was beautiful and soft and so delicate he feared he might break her, so he learned to have a soft touch, to be cautious. He learned that it was the only way he could let his walls crumble, be that boy Lydia deserved all the time, be that man that she’d managed to love despite everything.

Those were the moments when Jackson managed to find redemption, and it was because of that, because of who he was when he made love that saved him, that saved Lydia, that saved the whole goddamn world. It was the bond formed in those perfect moments when Jackson learned to be unselfish in the only aspect of his life that he could that has come to define him. And even though Lydia is gone now, gone from him, gone from the possibility of _this_ , Jackson still only knows this one way to answer the rising call of passion and lust, with reckless love and affection with abandon.

So, for all their anger, for all Derek and Jackson’s rage, their violence, their seething resentment, their combined tempers, when it finally does happen, when they finally tip past that line of _intimidation_ and cross into that nebulous, murky realm of _intimacy_ they find that they are oddly compatible. The way Derek kisses with such intensity that Jackson twists the leather of Derek’s jacket in his hands. The way Jackson sighs as Derek finds the hollows of his neck with his lips. The way Derek carefully, softly, almost like he’s asking permission, reaches for the hem of Jackson’s shirt. And the way Jackson can’t bring himself to look away, so he just nods, wide-eyed and lost in a sea of attention, of kindness, of delicate want that is so suited to his sensibilities he wonders if this was always meant to be. If everything that they’d been through, all the hardships in their lives, all the choices they’ve made, everything was always going to lead back to this one moment where Jackson shuts his eyes and hears the shuddered breath Derek takes as he peels their layers of clothes away like petals plucked from a flower, with hope and a rare kind of naiveté that Jackson has only ever associated with fiction.

Because ‘yes’ is all he thinks. And it matches so perfectly with the ‘please’ running on repeat in Derek’s head, but goes unspoken. They both suffer from an overabundance of bravado, of fruitless tempers, of righteous indignation at all the cruelties of the world. They can both curse fate, and blame God. They can both hate the world, and each other, and still they will gape in reverence at each other as Derek drops to his knees and nuzzles the musky space between Jackson’s thigh and his erection.

And as it turns out, they are so naturally suited to this, to each other, to the push and pull and drag of heated, slick skin and ragged breaths that they forget this started as a fight, that they aren’t even friends.

With a little encouragement from Derek, a few well placed ‘is this okay’ and ‘do you like it’s Jackson manages to overcome that teenage training of holding his tongue and swallowing his moans. He’s still surprised though, when he does release a breath and instead of a heady moan it’s an enthusiastic ‘yes’.

And once those floodgates are open, Jackson couldn’t close them if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. Right now he’s enjoying the way Derek gasps when Jackson moans his name too much. The way Derek kisses him deeply and pushes in deep enough to make Jackson see stars. The way Derek says ‘you feel so good’ and Jackson has to struggle around the lump in his throat to respond with a strangled ‘you’re perfect’ and Derek can’t manage a response to that because he thinks it might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.

It’s the way Derek reaches between them and takes Jackson’s swaying erection in his hands and times his thrust perfectly with the rise and fall of his fisted hand. It’s the way Jackson muffles a cry into the crook of his elbow. It’s the way Jackson whispers ‘I’m close, I’m so close’ in a broken cadence which still, somehow, matches the rhythm of Derek’s rocking hips perfectly. It’s the way Derek keeps pumping his right arm even though he could happily lose himself to this. It’s the way he tells Jackson he wants this, the way he pleads to see Jackson’s pleasure. It’s the way Jackson says ‘please’ and Derek _knows_ he doesn’t just mean ‘please yes’ or ‘please fuck me’, but ‘please see me’ and ‘please let this be enough’. It’s the way Jackson goes stiff and bites his lip when he comes, and Derek stills, stops his thrusts so he can take the time to watch Jackson, to memorize the rise of his chest, the red of his cheeks, the face Jackson makes when he comes. It’s the way Jackson continues to provide soft, quiet encouragements even after he’s come, because Derek spent so long milking Jackson’s orgasm, he’s gone half-flaccid. It’s the way Derek is tender when he grips Jackson’s hips and finally allows his pace to falter.

They are both titans, mythical creatures of the night, claws and fangs and bloodlust controlled by the zenith of the moon, and yet still they cater to the other’s desires first, careful with blunt teeth on hot skin and trimmed nails on the other’s back and neck and scalp. They are attentive even in the aftermath. The way they conform to the long lines of the other, the way they plant chaste, soft kisses on hands and wrists and fall asleep still in a tangle of limbs and love.

It was an accident, something borne of frustration and violence. But what it became, what they learned, is something that cannot be marked by notches or boasted about in loud clubs, or used as leverage against the other. They wake much as they were before last night, before whispers and soft caresses. They wake as the ornery, angry, sometimes idiotic men they were before. They shove into each other and level accusations and idle threats that neither of them need anyway. They would both rather be tortured than admit what’s happened to anyone. They slam doors and yell into the growing distance between them. They dress in silence clipped by the punctuation of zippers.

“Don’t think this is going to happen again,” Jackson warns, a fire in his eyes that sparks a retaliative, “Like I’d even want it to,” from Derek.

There is a lot of glaring and unnecessary use of the word ‘fuck’. But what goes unsaid, the thing they don’t name, don’t say, won’t even think until they are alone, until they are safe hours later, free from the cloistering smell of sex and semen and _them_ , is that they’re glad it happened. They are thankful, joyous even in a way they can’t begin to cope with. They are unequipped to handle the fallout of amazing, beautiful, compassionate sex. But even the messy aftermath, the way they avoid each other for months, the way they won’t look the other in the eyes when invariably they are thrown together to deal with the crisis du jour, can’t diminish what it was like, if only fleetingly, to know and give and be loved. To be both the center of the universe and make the other the center of theirs, like a great cyclical, recursive trail where happiness is a concrete, genuine, tangible emotion and not just some abstraction or unattainable intention.

Eventually they will find their way back to the other. Maybe it will be winter and their breath will condense in white fog and redden their noses and Derek will think that Jackson’s scarf is cute and Jackson will thank God for Derek’s car’s heated seats. Or maybe it will be summer, the sweltering heat of the day, a power outage takes the AC out and so they sweat and glisten and glide together like a well-choreographed dance. Or maybe it will just be another Tuesday and Jackson will show up at Derek’s place and kiss him before he loses the nerve or one of them can speak and ruin it. And Derek will whisper ‘thank God’ as they blindly fumble backwards and aim for the bed but don’t quite make it. And then they will watch the sunrise together, a cup of coffee in each of their hands, a blanket tossed around their shoulders, and the fingers of their free hands entwined.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the lovely teenwolvesohmy


End file.
